


The Ungentlemanly Scientist

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Cream Pie, Cum Play, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Loss of Virginity, Mutual Pining, Near Death, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn With Plot, RTS, Resolved Sexual Tension, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virginity, cum, frienship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: Wilson saves you from a blizzard where you surely would have died. As the seasons change, you realize he’s not just the only other person in Maxwell’s world... but you want him to show you how a woman can let off steam...A/N: This is my attempt at an art trade with ZombBean. Hopefully, it’s readable and not a pile of hot science garbage. <3
Relationships: Wilson/Original Female Character(s), Wilson/Reader - Relationship
Comments: 16
Kudos: 208





	The Ungentlemanly Scientist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZombieGremlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieGremlin/gifts).



Any day now and he’ll be too fuzzy around the face for the growing heat of summer. 

When it was winter, the dapper fellow was warmly energetic while you, someone who was more used to the Midwest than the northern darkness, struggled around a fire beneath beefalo furs. Now it’s summer, and you’re equally as miserable.

Maxwell, the tricky demon he is, made some forgotten deal with you during the fall of last year. You found Wilson in the middle of a blizzard over thirty days later, passing skeletons and pig huts westward while surviving on birdseed and berries. 

The natural fat insulation you had coming into this world was long gone by the time you stumbled upon Wilson’s well-fortified hut in the middle of a nearly modern looking pig village. At first, you’d been sure you were no more than a toothpick for the pig king to clean his munchers, but they saved you - snorting and gesturing - before sounding a gear-laden bell that megaphoned throughout the village. It was then you began seeing the world through a tunnel of darkness, fading into and out of consciousness; warmed by hypothermia. 

The last thing you saw before sagging inside a pig man's arms was Wilson with his well-combed beard and sleep-deprived eyes. 

You dreamt of him. In this hellish world of hounds, spiders and cold, cold winters - of mechanical monsters with electronic warfare and no one to cry against during the pitch of night - you prayed for a friend. Pigs snorted close. The scent of pine surrounded you while bitter spoonfuls of medicine slid down your throat. 

Hallucinations plagued you: a lanky figure that poked you in soft places with fingers like hypodermics, leaving behind hot, itchy relief while instilling a need all at once. 

Later, weeks later, in fact, you’d find out that those had been fever dreams, but Wilson - who played a role in your waking unconscious - was less a hallucination and more a faded recollection. 

He would come and go between rose-tinted memories of home on the plains, open winds cooling your hot skin as you trembled against the ghostly touch of shadow demons in the night. Haunted by those reaching claws of misty hunger, you cling to Wilson’s image which often led you away from the darkness. 

For over a week, you lain on the edge of death, fighting a sickness that tried its best to burn you from the inside out. 

The gentleman scientist would come and go, filling up the little room you rested in, bringing you viscous medicine of salty licorice with concerned glances, but the spoonfuls he fed you gradually worked their magic. 

Eaten dose after swallowed concoction brought you closer to lucidity until one evening where you awoke in a state of stale sweat and your loose shift. 

If you hadn’t still been slightly sick - hazy headed from no food and lethargic with a broken fever - then modesty may have concerned you, but it hadn’t. 

You slid from your rancid smelling bed, padded across the room, and opened the door to a cold night with crystals of snow falling from the navy-tinted sky. It might have been dumb, but the winter air felt like heaven on your skin; moving as it did through the thin, translucent fabric around your body. 

For the first time since waking up in such a strange world, you’d met a fellow human in a world that seemed to lack the footsteps of man. Intellectually, the lack of such destructive hands was probably a benefit, but you hadn’t been so relieved to see anyone as you were Wilson and his pig men. 

When you would try to thank him, he brushed them off with a polite smile. A disarming joke usually followed. So, you both would sit bashfully around a roaring fire while his gaze dropped down your body; hurried and instinctual.

“Lucky you didn’t end up belly side up in the lake. Even fish know better than that!” He said one evening after getting caught admiring your physique. 

The comment didn’t make sense at the time. Not until you found out, much later, you had actually fallen through broken ice sheets minutes before dragging your soaked carcass into the pig village. 

“We’re stocked up on popsicles as it is.”

Wilson was funny, or at least he tried. Not a great wordsmith to be true, but a decent scientist, perhaps a great one, but you’d known none in your life, so by comparison, you didn’t know better. Thespians were a rare occurrence in your life, so his humor might have been bland, and you’d be oblivious. 

Over the course of winter, you recovered slowly from your dance with death; smothered in increasing layers of beefalo furs and a scratchy hat made from suspicious black hair. The smell was like pine and oil. Oddly calming despite it reminding you of a library inside a steel factory. 

Despite being the only other person in the village, Wilson spent most of the winter in his stone tower. Bright beams of blue and gold lights often spilled through his windows.

Science stuff, you assumed. Your skills were minimal but you did what you could. One of your tasks involved helping the pigs in the glass gardens; harvesting carrots, cabbages, and the rare melon. 

Wilson would come down for stew, eating at a rate that seemed impossible for a man of such gangly build, and then make a series of quips before leaving for his laboratory again. Often, his eyes would trace your body as if hoping to see more curves than the day before. 

You nearly stopped trying to socialize with him, content to be alive and away from the barking hounds with their vicious teeth. 

A day or two more, and you would have given up hope of odd friendship. 

It was only happenstance that thirty-five days after waking up from your fever, Wilson took it upon himself to visit you of his own accord oddly enough. He brought with him a studious look and flowers, looking like he was cracking an equation and not presenting you a bouquet of wildflowers from the glass gardens. 

“I have a fiancé you know,” it was said in jest, but somewhere Clinton was wondering where his virginal, hysteric bride-to-be had gone. 

“Unless you want to end up a ‘mad’am, you’ll need these. Hopefully, it’ll put a summer smile on your face and those things that go bump in the night won’t bother you.”

He brokered no word of retort, pressing the flowers into your arms until you took them with a soft smile. It was the first time he had been in your presence without judging your boney frame with his eyes. 

“I suppose I have seen a few ghostly apparitions in the corner of my eye, Wilson.”

He whistled in agreement, as if wholly familiar with the apparitions. 

You inhaled the flowers, smelling winter despite their fragrance, “I remember running from them when I first found myself here. I was so sure they’d kill me.”

“Until your jelly, yes. But fires and flowers do wonders! Keep a keen watch on your sanity, my lady. It’d be a shame to lose you to hysteria.”

That word was vaguely insulting due to hazy memories of a displeased fiancé. A woman’s hysteria was a cruel thing, and even before you fell into Maxwell’s grasp, you were close to being sent to the physician for the latest cure. 

“I would appreciate it if you called my descent into madness 'insanity' and not female hysteria. That science is pure nonsense...”

Wilson blinked, showing the heavy bags of sleepless nights beneath and the tired black pupils inside fuzzy whites, “Hysteria has no preference for gender. It plays for both teams, but! - if you insist I’ll call you insane.” 

His smile, despite the long beard, seemed youthful even if his eyes were not. With that, you felt your first flutter of heat in a long, long time and decided this world wasn’t so sour as you believed, at least not with Wilson in it. 

Another month passed, but the cold persisted. The beefalo that grazed on ice-crusted grass outside the village were walking piles of snow. Inside the safety of the pig huts, they became a pleasant pastime to observe. 

One afternoon, after observing Wilson craft you a thermal stone, you sat in your furs and rosy cheeks, watching the herd graze while munching on pumpkin cookies and a steamed ham sandwich. 

A scientist you were undoubtedly not, but seeing the fixed interest every recipe and result the gentleman scientist shown made you itch for more than soil under your fingers. To feel something living underneath your hands. Watching his passion come to fruition bore an odd warmth in you - a warmth detached from the thermal stone that kept you toasty as the snowdrifts fell.

After finishing your lunch, you sprinkled the crumbs inside a bare patch of cold cobblestone for the snowbirds and left for the tower. 

Wilson was never far from his stone monstrosity, which he claimed to have built by hand. A feat of strength you weren’t sure he was capable of, but there were stranger things in this world than a muscled intellect.

You expected to find him in or around his laboratory, but the door opened into an empty room; hinges well-greased and silent. 

Machines too alien for you to fathom, chugged and moaned, fueled by something that smelt of earthy fumes. The many faces of dials and brushed copper flutes let off tufts of steam. Some of the heat leaked out the open glass windows, but that didn’t change the sweltering temperature inside that was so at odds with the cold weather.

As you walked softly around the oval lab, sweat beaded on your brow. 

A sturdy dead tree in a clay pot housed two cloaks, so you shrugged yours off and hung it on a noted limb.

“... better,” you exhaled, fanning out your tattered dress where it hugged against your midsection. Pale light from a potted mushroom lamp drew your gaze to the right.

A soft whistle belched from one of the machines nearby - a portly thing that mimicked a metallic barrel. It let off a stream of steam into the high ceiling before bubbling back into silence. 

As long as you didn’t touch anything, you felt justified in studying his workshop. So many things here felt familiar to the world Maxwell ripped you from, but none of it seemed real. Aside from the bookcase of oddly bound tomes and broken-spined journals, Wilson’s tower may as well have been the stuff of pulp flyers and trashy science fiction tales. 

That afternoon, you wanted to sit on the floor and read from the many books in his collection, but something organic moaned between the sounds of noisy machines. 

“Wilson?”

There came no reply. 

A part of your brain knew you called his name too softly - too gentle against all the chirping steel echoing off the stones… but you followed the masculine sounds anyway. Maybe you had hoped to find the only other man in this world - that you knew off - in some type of human state. Because, to be fair, he was much more focused on his machines than a traditional man might have been had a helpless young woman found themselves in their midst. Yes, he stared at your form, but it rarely seemed lustful. 

A gentleman for sure, but you’d be a liar to say his lack of intimate interest in you wasn’t slightly unflattering. 

Although you know now what had been going through your mind, at the time, you had only the vaguest emotions and hope as to what you’d find. Every step closer to the ajar door made the manly sounds heavier. 

Laborer breaths and gritty exhales warmed your cheeks. 

Before opening his door, you had a hypothesis. Having walked in on your late fiancé in a similarly sounding predicament gave you pause, but only enough to make the last push on his wooden door an adventure. 

Wilson was - as you guessed - in a predicament. 

You watched from a hip-wide gap in the door as the bearded scientist tugged his own hair into disarray, his other hand stroking his… 

“Wilson…” you thought aloud; transfixed and flustered. 

He carried on obliviously as though he’d gone deaf in his determined urgency. 

Hysteria indeed, you thought with a little humor; staring fixedly upon his fist as it squeezed and rode his blood-swollen phallus. Every movement was hurried yet thoughtful. To Wilson, he had plenty of time to come to his eventual paroxysm: a cure as it were. 

You had yet to receive such relief thanks to your so-called ‘hysteria’ being too severe for a standard massage. Perhaps, in a way, Maxwell had saved you from an asylum or surgery. 

Though it seemed natural for a man to bring himself ecstasy, the act of witnessing self-pleasure for the second time in your life, made you feel warm. More warmth… and heat… and longing. 

When Wilson’s rhythm began to slow, and his phallus grew dark as a blister, you stepped into his room to help. 

In retrospect, it was silly. To think he might have harmed himself in his passion was ridiculous, and the results of your supposed help were met with an awkwardness that lasted another month. 

By the time Wilson stopped blushing in your presence, it was spring. The air was still cold, but your patchy dress, belt, and shift were more than enough to keep you safe from the elements.

Several months after your arrival, Wilson accepted your insistence to help outside the pig village. He oversaw your work as you crafted a speargun with his direction, enjoying the process of creating something tangible and worthwhile that didn’t involve gardening and cooking. It wasn’t what your fingers craved to mold and you’d, but it did for now. 

With the spring came berries in abundance, wild carrots, and mandrake roots that - when cooked over a roaring fire - made you feel alive.

The wilds were as treacherous as you recalled, but Wilson needed to be reminded that, despite your death being spared only by his poultices and the dutiful attentions, you made it far on your own with next to nothing but a torch and worthless lady-skills.

“Watch you don’t flatten your face on the cobblestones. The paths only get worse from here.”

You traded heels for bare feet the day you landed in this world…

“Careful-“

“If you keep undermining me, I’m sure I could find a gallant gathering of pig men to do assist me,” you jested when Wilson reminded you a third time to watch your step. All this morning’s errands involved were honey collection and gold mining after all.

“Better yet, my lady,” he began with a smile, “find some fish folk. They’ll be so grateful, they’ll have you for dinner.”

Wilson chuckled at his own comment, pausing to inspect a rock riveted with gold veins. 

“Mmm,” you humored him for a moment as he stroked a shimmering river, “At least the fish folk lack male physiques.”

The gentleman scientist arched a sharp black brow. 

“Spit-roasted seems gentle compared to what I feared the pig men might do.”

Wilson fumbled with the pickaxe for a second, seeming much more red-faced than he was before despite the chipping of gold bits. You must have gone too far with your talk, but there were no doctors here to commit you… nor a fiance to look at you so shamefully. Despite Wilson standing there blushing with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows, you merely smiled mischievously at his embarrassment.

“Were you a troublemaker back home or a carnival act?” He sounded genuinely amused by your brazen speech. 

You grinned at that, almost laughed if not for the odd glimmer in his dark eyes - the first sign he might be capable of impure thoughts outside his science experiments. At the very least he was familiar with the popular manly pastime of innuendo. 

Into the afternoon and evening, you both traded japes and conversations, both banal and exciting. That day, you realized how overzealous he was to go beyond traditional scientific study that Maxwell easily tricked him into building a portal to this world. 

“I hate that guy,” Wilson grumbled during a break to eat paper-wrapped dragon pie. 

He sat opposite you on a large chunk of stone while you rested in a patch of soft grass and white flowers for they did indeed soothe your anxiety. 

It was quiet, but only for awhile. 

Wilson brushed some pie crust from his beard and gave you a narrowed look of interest. The question you had no answer to was asked, “How did that demon trick you? Promises of pretty dressers and pearls?”

“Insults aside, Wilson, I do not recall anymore. It’s hazy… like a dream.”

He threaded his fingers through his beard, combing the silky length until all the hints of their lunch were long gone. “Amnesia. Hmm…”

You picked a few blades of grass at your side, brushing phantom crumbs from the folds of your dress before shrugging in a manner most unlady-like. “I was engaged to a factory manager named Clinton Abbedon. I remember many closed-door discussions questioning my mannerisms and the eventual diagnosis of female hysteria. I assumed Maxwell used my fears about what they planned to do to me for his own gain... ”

The mention of such hysteria brought color to his cheeks, no doubt recalling the events months ago in his tower and your gross misunderstanding of male arousal and the pleasures they could reach. You were only slightly envious of his ability having touched yourself a fair few times since then to not avail. 

Wilson cleared his throat, “Did you see a physician?”

You shake your head, “I think I was frightened they would have me committed, but thinking upon it more, it seems silly. Clinton wanted a wife and children. Office visits for forced paroxysm seemed most likely.”

The gentleman scientist sitting across from you held in a scoffing laugh, eyes creasing with mirthless anger. 

He stroked his beard to calm his response before speaking frankly. “I must have come across insensitive before. A real insufferable bastard.” 

Wilson seemed sympathetic, but his expression was more focused inward than to you, as if he was ashamed of being ashamed, “I’m sorry. I’ve been here longer than I thought, and the terminology of the day escapes me.”

“I…” you pause to consider what had just happened, “No man has apologized to me before. Th-Thank you.”

Another warm density filled your belly then, sinking like an ingested thermal stone. The heat from inside flushed your cheeks and from that blush, so to did Wilson’s face reddened. It was a strange mixture of ‘hysteria’ and calm regard, but your feeling of soaked heat and racing excitement made you bold - stupid perhaps. 

“I’m sorry too,” you muttered as the sun slid behind heavy, grey clouds, “In the tower, I thought you were-“

Wilson cuts you off quickly, “The body is a machine and machines let off steam. J-just a tune-up is all it was, I didn’t mean to call out to you.”

You bite your tongue. Did he really say your name while touching himself? Nothing in your memory of that day said you heard him but… he just admitted he had. 

“It’s okay,” you say carefully, choosing to revisit this new revelation later under your blankets. 

“Does that rule of tuning up the body extend to both genders?” It was an innocent question in all honesty, but even as you asked it, it sounded indecent; heart-pounding. Perhaps, if it was less frowned upon for women to experience pleasure - if it were possible - then ‘hysteria’ would be less widespread.

Wilson stuttered beneath his silky beard, and, for the first time in a long, long while, you laughed. A giggle. A chuckle. A big smile made your cheeks swell with blood, but so too brought a smile to his face. 

As the seasons change from spring into summer, their talk grows hotter as the days do. 

Here, there is no judgment from your fiancé, father, and the many other men from your past life, only Wilson and his beard that’s leaving him far too warm for the growing sunshine. 

You can joke and flirt, and nothing feels terribly taboo.

As the days grow longer - the sun hanging in the sky until late into the evening - you exchange the heavy dress for some thin linen. The color of honey clinging to your returning curves. 

One of the pig men skilled in the talent of tailoring does a decent job making you something like a dress but far too short to be called anything but undergarments. Underneath the hem, equally thin bloomers cling to your hips and upper thighs but there’s nothing else keeping your naked skin from the sunlight. 

Often, you catch Wilson looking at the way your dress flutters about your thighs instead of his machines, but his glances are brief, and though they joke about all manner of things, these looks are never brought up. And it is no secret you know about his appreciation. Wilson has been caught too many times admiring your healthy figure for him to pretend he’s not obvious. 

It’s near dusk when you hear his dress shoes on the cobblestones outside - pig men snorting good evening and hello. After getting the last few buttons on the front of your dress undone, Wilson knocks on the door. 

You’ve taken to the same hut you burned through that winter fever in, and by now, it looks as well-decorated by your fancies as his tower does his various interests. There’s even a mechanized machine with thick blocks of ice to keep the shack cool during the night. 

You invite him in with your bosom half-exposed, not thinking clearly thanks to the heat still clinging to your mind. He walks in with his fingers stuffed under his chin, itching the coarse hair with a furrowed brow only to glance down at your chest with a blush. 

His warm gaze lifts away quickly, trying as he does to be a gentleman. 

“I feel like a fuzzy animal.”

You raise your brows and smile cheekily, “You mean to say there’s a man underneath all that hair?”

He makes a ‘hmm’ of good-humored agitation and sets a bowl of mandrake soup on your desk, pushing aside sewing implements and thread bobbles. It’s probably your favorite dish in this mysterious place.

“What do you want?” You ask, sensing there’s a quid pro quo about to be voiced. Wilson knows mandrake will coerce you into any hairbrained adventure or task.

Instead of answering, he pulls out a cloth-wrapped straight razor and bottle from his back pocket. It’s only now that you take him all in. 

He’s in a white dress shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up past his elbows. The suspenders hang around his thighs, and his pants - though fitted well - sag around his hips. It’s not indecent, not like your open neckline, but it makes more heat sink into your lower body, close… so close to your vulva. 

“Are you to make me believe you can’t shave your own face?”

For a brief moment, he stands there, holding the shaving equipment with a longing etched into his ever sleepy eyes. The room echoes with the sound of his throat working down nerves. It makes your amused smile soften and fall.

“Are you alright, Wilson?”

“My lady,” he asks, more formally than the playful tone he usually uses, “I’ve never had an opportunity to enjoy certain company. I’m a science man… gentleman scientist I guess. Independent at least.”

Slowly, your heart begins to race.

He continues, as if there’s more to this than a simple shave, “If it’s not insulting to ask, would you remove this itchy mess?”

“A shave of all things has gotten you this worked up? Are you certain that’s all you’re asking?” It’s the heat that’s making you bolder… the weather is to blame and not him, or you or the stirring between your thighs. Though the image of him lathering his hardness in mindless pleasure does cross your mind. 

“Just the shave. It was something my colleagues' wives did for their husbands,” he comments as though it was ages ago, “Like my hysteria comment before, I didn’t want to offend you or anything.”

“It’s just us here, you know,” the sound of your voice feels foreign in its husky-tone, “My fiancé isn’t here to judge me for breaking silly social norms…”

“Hmm. I never subscribed to social norms. Never needed them or wanted them. You can’t break what you don’t own!” His smile bristles.

You’ve since gotten used to the beard, but the idea of seeing Wilson cleanly shaved is intoxicating. So much of his facial hair covers his features… what does he genuinely look like without? Will his appearance diminish your attraction or heighten it?

“Take a seat on the bed,” you tell him, speaking in a firm tongue you’d have never used on your fiancé. 

Wilson obeys your command with mild hesitation, never once peeling his eyes off you. 

He’s like a moth to a flame the moment you lean in to inspect the broken ends of his beard. His black eyes shiver in retaliation before slipping lower. The sensation of his gaze on your skin is powerful in a way it’s never been before. Nothing wanton or improper, but something enjoyable; gratifying. 

“Scissors.”

Wilson hands them to you, and the next ten minutes is spent carefully trimming down his beard with cuts and shears until he resembles something of a man beneath. That hidden bone structure is there… but the outline only makes you hungry for the rest. 

You coat his scruff in the oily cream he brought with him, laying it on in thick layers. 

He makes a rattling groan when your thumb rubs the lather beneath his jaw; down the top of his throat. Another, more baritone sound, escapes when you make the first swipe of the razor. 

Back home, you used to help shave your brothers and father for special occasions, but tonight, with Wilson’s eyes hovering half-closed as you barber him clean, it’s intimate like nothing else has ever been. Perhaps it’s silly, but you know the queer feeling in your stomach is a wanting; lusting.

He’s a rather handsome gentleman underneath it all. With a sharp jawline that meets in a careful arch from chin to ear and sturdy, high cheekbones. He reminds you of an artist - a writer perhaps. 

When his breathing becomes labored, you pause with the razor blade hovering beside his right cheek, “Wilson?”

“Mmm?” 

“Are you alright?” You only ask because he looks the closest to sleep that you’ve ever seen him. Even when he was in the midst of pleasuring himself, he was tense and tight. Now, his expression is lax, and his eyes are heavy.

Wilson blinks sluggishly, swallows and says, “Do I look like a shaved derriere?”

You bite your lower lip red to stop hiccuping with giggles. In return, Wilson gives you a tiny smile, still looking intoxicated. Holding back what looks like a chuckle, he allows you to finish his upper lip and the finishing touches. 

Heart in your throat, you pat him dry with the cloth he’d wrapped the razor in and lean away to observe your handiwork. Not a single drop of blood spilled despite feeling flushed a good few times during the operation. And yes, he’s attractive… more so than your fiancé had been or any of the men that courted you before. With the beard, he was easy to ignore… sometimes… but now…

Wilson runs his long fingers - scattered with little marks from cuts and burns - across his smooth face. His lips pinch in contemplation, but eventually, he comes to with a wry smirk. 

“I’m human again. Imagine that!”

“... to think I thought a wild beast may have been beneath all that hair.” It’s a joke, but the comment makes his gaze harden into hot coals. You spook when his eyes find yours; a current of electricity jolting the tender folds betwixt your thighs. 

The look is gone quickly, but the damage is done. Forever you’ll be haunted by this ache Wilson instills in you. Despite the stress of this world, especially in the beginning, you’ve found a safe haven, and in that haven of pig men, odd mechanics, and nightmares, you hunger for more than food. 

“Yes, well… goodnight, my lady.”

You sway on your bare heels, slightly flustered and very wet as he gathers up his shaving equipment, and thanks you for the help. It’s an awkward farewell in ways you’re unfamiliar with, but the sensation Wilson leaves you with is a state of longing you’ve only felt in minuscule doses before. The desire is on par with that of food when you’d been starving - of warmth when you’d been frozen, and comfort when you’d been alone. 

“... goodnight,” you whisper belatedly; lips dry and insides slick. 

In bed, lying over your blankets, you hug yourself as a pulsation beats between your legs. To touch it would be to fail once more.

Like clockwork, the pig shacks shut down for the night, leaving nothing but the sound of summer crickets, frogs croaking in the faraway distance, and your heartbeat. It pounds in your throat, inside your body where it usually isn’t. 

Every moment that passes makes your fingers itch harder in the thin cloth folded around your thighs. Slowly - carefully as if someone is watching - you shift your legs and hips, wiggling your bloomers off until they’re crumpled around one ankle. 

Nothing comes from your explorations but heavy breathing, frustrated moans, and the realization that there’s something you just can’t climb despite how hard you try. 

Before rolling over in hot embarrassment, shamed by your own slick need and the inability to satiate it, you wonder if the physicians were right… if indeed you harbored a hysteria of the female variety. It’s a gnawing worry that melts into your unconscious until you fade into dreams as hot and wet as the way Wilson makes you feel. 

Avoiding Wilson only lasts a couple of days, and by the third morning, he’s shaved himself down to the skin once again. You only feel slightly betrayed that he didn’t come to ask for another hand in his endeavors, but truth be told… you were finding every reason not to engage with him. 

Just last evening, you narrowly avoided him after helping the pig men with dinner; catching the smell of pine and grease as you twisted to evade him on your way to your shack. 

Now, in the light of day, your desires seem less cumbersome - less suffocating. 

Over pepper poppers and some ice cream, you smile at Wilson while he shakes soot out of his wild hair. The stress lines and dark patches beneath his eyes say he didn’t sleep much, if at all. And the way he sags into the chopping log speaks volumes. 

His long legs bend, knees up around his stomach with one elbow shoved on top of his thigh. You observe him beneath some loose hair, perhaps admiring more like. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” you begin as the sun shines and fades between ominous-looking clouds, “what are you working on up there? - in the tower?”

He curls a wild stalk of hair around a long finger and wiggles a chip of metal from the soft black threads, “A portal back home, of course. This vacation has overstayed its welcome.”

“Oh.” The disappointment comes from somewhere previously hollow.

He straightens his spine until something pops then hunches forward with bold elbows on his thighs. Now that the heat is growing oppressive, Wilson has taken to undoing the collar of his white shirt, exposing pale skin to the rays of the sun. 

For a moment, you imagine kissing between the dip of his collarbones; tasting the sweat that shines on him when the days are at their hottest. 

No matter his machines, the heat is affecting you both. 

Wilson, being the one more likely to grow frustrated by his failed experiments, and you… well, you’re hang-ups have always been about a body man wanted to control. This heat is simply a catalyst for letting your physical desires run amuck. 

Wilson knows there’s something wrong with you, which is why he mistakes your frown for discomfort. He offers to make a date out of this morning, killing two birds with one stone by gathering some blue gems for something he says will keep you both cool during the days ahead. 

According to him, the pig ruins are naturally chilled. 

Hoping it will calm the throbbing in your body, you agree. 

The journey there isn’t too arduous, but the old cobblestone paths run alongside a field of rowdy beefalo. Their noises roar beneath your feet. The smell of heat in the air unlike anything summer has thrown at you thus far. 

You stop and look when a higher-pitched noise startles you. 

“They look like their having a good time,” Wilson says beside you jokingly until you look away from a pack of mating beefalo, glancing in surprise at him. His amusement fall immediately, replaced by a ruddy rash across his cheeks. 

“Not that I would… know, of course…”

His stuttering is oddly attractive. Wilson’s manners never come across as anything but sincere unlike the courtship you’re used to. Not to say that he’s courting you… but his looks and reactions say as much as words can. 

He likes you. That much is obvious, but it’s the way he ‘doesn’t’ act that excites you. 

True to his word, the ruins do indeed cool you off. Air, ten feet below the surface, is naturally conditioned according to Wilson. It makes sense when he explains it, though the science fades to the back of your mind when you both have to fan a crowd of shadow monsters from your path. 

By now, the vicious wisps are less nightmarish than before. Summer seems to keep them shackled to corners and dark, dusty places like this. 

On happenstance, you find the first blue gem, much to Wilson’s excitement and mild envy. He snatches it from your hand and raises it to your torch flame, humming in study before his lips lift in the corner.

“It’s Gem-uine!” 

In a child-like response to his innocent humor, you giggle and snatch the gem back, stuffing it in your satchel despite the mock pout on his lips. 

Hours fly by exploring the odd ruins of a world you couldn’t have dreamt up, not even with all the psychotropics across the globe. As time passes, you even forget about that deep desire in your gut and the failed attempt at self-pleasure several days ago.

It isn’t until you turn around to show Wilson an odd spiral etched triangle from a shallow hole that the heat swaddles you again. 

He’s unclothed from the waist up - suspenders swaying around his legs beneath the long sleeve shirt tied about his hips. 

Beneath the gangly appearance, he’s trimmed with muscle and tendon, scattered with a fair few grooves of scar tissues and one pink slash that curves down his side beneath the sweaty linen shirt barely hiding the dip of his hips…

An ax swing makes your body jolt. Both the noise and the way his muscles stretch and flex paralyze you.

Wilson grunts and throws the pick end into a mangled statue once more. It crumbles into tiny piles of shiny gems and rubble, flecking his sweaty chest in fine dust and gritty sand.

You swallow, and the ruins echo it. 

His dark pupils meet yours, and you stand there feeling frozen by magma and a full weight in your lower extremities, holding the insignificant bit of pyramid in your palm out to him on unstable joints.

It’s clear what’s running through your mind. Bright as sunshine. 

Wilson’s eyes fall down your body and linger on the bare stretch of thigh your petite dress doesn’t cover and - because the line keeping you leashed is about to snap anyway - you sigh out his name. 

“Y-yes?” He fumbles with the pickaxe, blushing down his neck… down his upper chest. 

In the pig ruins, with sweat on his lips, you walk forward and carefully kiss him. 

Unsure as you are despite all the unspoken interest and fantasies, you dare touch your fingers to his stomach. The muscles beneath his skin twitch and harden. Hot breath gushes against your tongue as Wilson leans down and seals your lips; hungry and animalistic… and perfect. 

Something clatters to the stone-cut floor a second before Wilson grabs you about the waist, one palm sneaking around your throat to cup your jawline. His fingers tighten, not too hard, but enough to angle your lips against his, allowing his tongue to delve inside your trembling mouth. 

His gums taste of dragon fruit mixed with a merely hot flavor. 

You gasp beneath the rub of his fingers. They thread through the damp hair at the nape of your neck until you moan softly; lashes fluttering close.

Wilson dips deeper, flicking your tongue with his own. Fire burns. Magma wells. Waterfalls of lava surface and bubble. The earth beneath your feet - not even actually earth - is inconsequential now. 

“Make me...” you gasp into his mouth, inhaling sharply the second his kisses slip down your chin, planting a hot pattern down your throat. 

“The-the paroxys’sssm… can you-“

His bottom teeth run up the side of your neck, silencing your attempt to beg. 

Gooseflesh breaks out across your skin, and without thinking, you dig your nails into his bare shoulders as he tells you, panting, “It’s called climaxing. You-you have to… show me how.”

You nod quickly; impatient.

Wilson twists you around into a column, hiking one bare leg up around the edge of his hip. The motion is heart-melting, frothing, and exciting. You hug an arm around his neck and shove his hand between your legs. His fingers twitch and dig against the linen of your bloomers. 

Your head spins. 

Pleasure shoots up from your vulva right into your bones. With a startling arch of your spine, the ceiling starts to snow ancient dust. 

"Folly!"

“What's happen-”

Wilson yanks you off the column a moment before a chunk of unsound infrastructure crashes to the floor. 

Adrenaline courses through your veins at the same speed lust had a second prior. 

The both of you narrowly avoid the cave-in, dodging blocks covered in deep roots and upper-level architecture. A frightful groan of thunder rushes behind you, leaving a gap half of Wilson’s height between the two of you a rockslide blocks off the pig ruins. 

With starved breathes - satchels and hearts in hand - you break down in nervous laughter as Wilson mutters something akin to ‘that was the last entrance.’

Since Maxwell banished you here to die or thrive, you’ve avoided death several times. This isn’t too different, but something inside has trouble comprehending the dusty pile of settling stone that was nearly your tomb. 

“We’re okay. We’re okay… we’re okay-“ you repeat as giggles, hiccups, and tears leak out of you. 

Wilson rubs your shoulders until the manic episode passes. Gentle touches, just shy of trembling, sweep the moisture away from your cheeks until his rough thumb tries to remove the newest drops before they fall. 

When has someone touched you so tenderly before? No one, you realize as Wilson ruffles dust out of your hair with that ruddy blush still staining his cheeks and upper chest. 

The walk back is a mess of grateful noises and evasive paths to avoid the hot smell of mating beefalo and barking hounds in the distance. 

“I still meant what I said,” you mention while unloading your satchel in his laboratory, by now comforted by the whirring of machines and whistling steam. “About the.. uhm, paroxysm- I mean the climax. If you’re still interested, that is…”

Wilson pauses while adjusting his collar around his throat, standing with a long sliver of exposed skin from collar to bottom navel. There’s still dust stuck in swaths about his clothes and stomach, proof of the ruinous escape not long ago. 

His nervous energy allows the bolder side of you to flower, taking a step closer and another…

The gentleman scientist drops his hands to his sides and lets out a husky breath as you slip your hands beneath the open flaps of his shirt; hot skin tightening beneath your hands. 

His red face dips to yours but you hesitate, licking your lips instead as if maybe there’s still some of his flavor there, but there’s not, and you’re hungry. Starvation makes you do things - things like press an open mouth kiss to the center of his chest. 

Wilson groans loudly, but it’s dampened under his whirling science machines and a summer shower in the distance. The smell of rain leaks in through the open windows, mixing with sweat, grease, and pine-musk.

“Before,” you whisper, feeling his heart beating wildly against your lips, “when I saw you touching yourself - did you have a climax later when I left?”

He swallows thickly before whimpering, “Y-yes.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

Wilson nods and leans further down until that spot in his spine pops again, allowing you plenty of room to move up and kiss his parted lips. The dragon fruit from before is mild, leaving more of that unique flavor that’s undoubtedly masculine. You exhale through your nose and sag forward, smiling wistfully as his hands open against your back. 

He pulls you further in until the heat of his naked chest filters through your thin summer linens. 

Rough hands, calloused by failed experiments, run up to cup your bare elbows, urging your own hands further up his chest. Hard nipples drag beneath your palms, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the man kissing you. 

Fueled by the touch, you can only assume, Wilson’s lips slant suddenly. The contact deepens, but it’s you that slips your tongue beneath his first, swallowing the heavy groan he emits against the touch. 

“Haaaa,” you sigh aloud, opening and closing your lips against his passionate lip-locking until your head begins to swim, and he pulls away.

One hard breath later, and Wilson returns, taking your lips for his own in that same animalistic desire he’d had in the pig ruins. Before he can herd you against a workbench or wall, you part with a wet grin and lead him back into the tiny bedroom off his lab. 

It reeks of him inside; manly aroma better than any cologne your fiancé might have tried charming you with. 

“Show me what I was doing wrong.”

Wilson blinks, cherry-faced, and shiny with sweat. You pull him by the hands to his bed. 

Despite folding his tongue in yours moments ago, he stutters and stumbles like a newborn calf. 

“Touch me,” you beg this time, so hungry it’s impossible to feel shame. 

A rumble of thunder echoes against the stone walls, but it’s no louder than your pulse in your ears - no hair raising than Wilson’s weak moan as you sink to the edge of his bed and pull him down. 

The moment his knee hits the bed, his hesitation melts. Back are the kisses that leave your lips wonderfully sore and puffy. Rough yet gentle hands skim up your calves. They smooth over your knees and down your thighs. Wilson strokes the curve of your hips where his thumbs hook and drag down your bloomers. 

You break the kiss with a wet sound, leaning back to watch him remove the thin barrier of cotton. A cool caress of air slips along your folds just as Wilson’s gaze drops between your thighs. 

A leak of moisture makes you blush, but the embarrassment you’ve felt most of your life is absent, and nothing but heart-pounding anticipation remains. It’s like that cave-in at the ruins, but the adrenaline has brings no terror.

Wilson blankets you with a press of foreheads - elbow in the bed beside your head - and traces your labia as summer rain starts to fall. A moan slips from your lips as the calluses snag the tender flesh. 

“It feels so different…” you think aloud; eyes peering into his wild ones. 

The pig men down in the village start snorting beneath the downpour, and with the thunder comes shimmers of lightning that flash Wilson’s face in hard edges. He smiles and another flash paints parts of his in shadow. 

Wilson’s small bedroom darkens, covering the stain across his cheeks but not the glimmer in his eyes as they stare into yours. Delicate pain blossoms beneath your navel as his fingers slip within. It takes your breath away. 

“... ah,” you wince, contorting against the discomfort but smiling as the ache grows fuzzy. 

“S-sorry.” He nearly pulls away when you whimper again, but one hand in a tall rift of his hair keeps him where he is. Thanks to the mushroom lamp that begins to glow as the clouds blanket the day outside, it’s easy to keep the gentleman scientist’s gaze.

“Didn’t you have a fiancé waiting for you?” 

You chuckle through your nose and wiggle your hips down until his fingers feel like exotic spears. Clinton never made you feel an iota of what Wilson does, nor did you want to live in that world again… this was where you belonged. 

“I’ll never see him again,” a gasp as his digits curl and turn inside you, “besides… haaa’ah… he’d never treat me this way…”

“Like a lady?” There’s a smirk in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, but it’s addicting like a fine brandy. 

Another kiss leaves you panting, but a push and twist of his thumb makes your body twitch, and lips go slack. It’s like a monsoon of pleasure compared to the droplets of enjoyment your own hands have sought time and again. 

“Yes’yes! Like a-hhh… yes…”

You dig your hips down into his hand, rocking and thrusting much like he’d done to himself that day you peeped in on him unsuccessfully. It feels perfect - right and beautiful. Every swirl of his thumb drives his fingers in and out like a slow-moving piston - every swipe pops something fleshy and hard and brings with it a surge of thick ecstasy. 

“Is this it?” Wilson asks against your lips; panting restlessly. 

“Mmm,” you reply and nod, turning your mouth to kiss him as if that will convey your answer. 

Down below, a pig man squeals in the pouring rain. 

Even though you’re gasping and grinding - fingers tight in his wild hair - you laugh breathlessly at the poor beasts below. 

Wilson chuckles too, but it’s a little dark - a little animal-like. He grins against you, narrows his eyes in hot arousal, and tugs his fingers from their godly work, only to yank your hips half off the bed and shove his face between trembling thighs. 

Words like ‘stop and don’t!’ melt on your tongue as his own plays you into a shivering corpse upon the bed. It’s obscene… embarrassing and… you want more. 

“Yesss,” you hiss and drag him closer by twin arches of hair, guiding his mouth to the nerves his thumb had awoken. 

Long drags of his tongue gradually centralize where you steer him, swirling and sucking upon that bud beneath your mound until the sensations wrap you in phantom hugs of pleasure. Wilson’s tongue, teeth, and lips eat you with care - gathering drops of moisture from your insides with a swipe and groan. 

One of the machines whistles loudly as he urges you faster to something unsteady - something terrifying and new. It’s nothing like the fear of escaping death or dying in the cold - it’s like nothing else. You race towards the sensation anyway, unable to think about anything else. And when it hits you, it’s like dying, but… 

“I’m… cured,” you gasp in a mindless stupor. 

As the feeling grows and pulsates, enveloping your muscles and nerves from the point of contact. 

Wilson’s tongue flicks and your insides contract. All the way to the outer reaches of your fingertips and toes, the sensation of fuzzy warmth spreads. You think about that cave-in and the blizzard - realizing it’s the same. Each feat sought fit to smother you but neither could, yet Wilson does and you want more already. 

“Human machines need to let off steam, remember?” Wilson says hotly against the warm crease between outer labia and inner thigh, “I’ve read many global journals… and some write about this.”

He spreads your folds with his fingers, inspecting the swollen nerves with delicate interest until your face colors. Looking down your wrinkled yellow linens, past the soft thatch of hair where his face hovers close, you note the shine on his lips as lightning flashes through the windows again. 

“Are they,” you rise upon your elbows to watch him study your anatomy with bright, wide eyes, “scientific journals… like the ones I’m thinking of?”

“Illustrated journals. Guides. Discourse on the sexes different receptors. This,” Wilson’s eyes lower as he leans in to lick that swollen nub that brought you so much bliss, “piqued my interest. I never had the chance to try it until now.”

Your lashes flutter - your body tingles, and just as quickly as the eclipse had passed, it returns, leaving you panting heavily. 

Something in your eyes makes Wilson flounder, sitting up between your knees as if he’s stepped in front of a hounds path with nowhere to run. His long, engineering fingers squeeze around your thigh; nervous anticipation ripe. 

With a motion as smooth as the shadow things in the night, you lift your hips and slide down, wrapping him in a loose hug so you can press him to the bed. Nothing but a rattling groan escapes him as you begin unbuttoning his slacks. 

“May I?”

“Shh-sure. My instrument is-“ Wilson tries to joke, but the heel of your hand grazes the stiffness below, leaving him silent and red-faced. 

Another flash of lightning exposes the room and for a second you think there’s someone else here with you - a figure watching from the darkness - but Wilson strokes your naked thighs, drawing your attention back down. One clasp on his trousers goes free and another exposes the tight expanse of naked skin leading to the very thing you saw him stroke months ago. 

You straddle his thighs as he pants heavily on the bed. The sight of him - so disheveled and red-lipped from eating you - makes your fingers shake as you uncover the hard phallus lodged beneath his trousers. 

“Are you sure ah-“ his voice hitches as your fingers wrap around his hardness, “I haven’t been touched in… awhile.”

It sounds like he could have said ‘never,’ but for a man in their early thirties, that confession could be shameful. Less so for you, an unmarried woman, but this newness feels like a blossom blooming late. 

With a smile, you confess, “Clinton never touched me. I tried on my own after I saw you, but…” you glance down at the weighty, silky-smooth shaft in your hands, “I couldn’t climax.”

You stroke him like you saw him do to himself before, emboldened by his tight-jaw expression.

“Wilson…” you whisper his name, “you made it happen… I want to help you too.”

“F-faster then,” he groans, sweating lightly against the glow of the mushroom lamp in the corner and the periodic flashes of summer lightning. 

The heat is oppressive, so you squeeze him from base to tip, then release him much to his noisy refute. His stuttering goes silent as you begin unbuttoning your bodice. 

Wilson blinks as if clearing the fog, before sitting up to quickly shed you of the yellow linen with nothing below. 

His lips skim the area between breast and collar bone before grasping the fatty flesh to suck upon your stiff nipple. It’s a mess of soft bolts of pleasure that crawls down between your thighs. 

A large hand grasps the plush of your rump, yanks you in until the hard slab of his shaft brands your mound. Suddenly, a new need arises. 

You gasp and rock forward. 

Wilson’s moan vibrates the tip of your breast, sending more hot strings of anticipation inside you. 

“More,” you gasp, threading your fingers through the wild tufts tickling your chin as he nips and slurps upon your chest. “I feel so wet inside… more, please…”

As you ask, fingers dig around the crease of your rear, nudging your slippery folds until a fresh sting makes you tremble. You’re quickly filled again as before… but not enough.

Wilson's lips. His fingers. The combinations of skillful, long digits thrusting inside your hot center and Wilson’s hot tongue and lips sucking upon your nipples makes you think of mating.

The wild rutting of the beefalos had appeared so obscene and foul. Such animalistic vigor seemed impossible for humans to recreate, yet your mind races with images of Wilson plundering your body in countless and inconceivable positions… endless sinful ways. All ways leading to you squirming is bliss and boneless with it. 

His fingers awaken this new need while his sucking torture turns to kisses and half-soft bites. 

A rattle of thunder shakes the world around you. Moans suffocate your logic, but some sort of ancestral knowledge fuels you. 

“Kiss me,” you demand and grab his hard cheeks, turning his attention from your happily-abused chest to your lips. 

He kisses you with a gushing exhale and more teeth than you expected. It’s like lightning beneath your skin. 

You mimic his furious touch beneath your rear with a fist wrapped tightly around his phallus, stroking with twists of your wrist that go smoothly thanks to the sweat of summer. Humidity from the rain leaks in through the open windows, making every brush of skin slick. 

Somewhere, far away or closer than you’d both like, someone or something chuckles darkly.

Wilson chokes against your kisses when your thumb drags beneath a knot of flesh where the flared head of his tip fans out. You repeat the motion, cupping and squeezing the head while stroking in short movements. 

“S-stop!” He begs; lips hanging open against your jawline. 

You pause, breathing heavily. 

Confusion starts to unwind your frenzied lust, but Wilson grabs your backside in a bruising grip and shoves three whole fingers inside you, pumping them in with piston-like motions. 

A soundless cry leaves your throat. 

You grip Wilson's shoulders and dig your nails in deep as his mouth sucks and kisses down your jaw, neck and further. 

Without warning, the bed hits your back with a sharp gush of breath. Those hot kisses return to your lips and it’s there that you begin to overheat - overstimulation causing a fever of needs. 

Maxwell laughs from the shadows. 

“Push it inside me, please,” you beg, but the tone sounds sharp and dangerous on your ears. Wilson’s responding growl doesn’t sound human. He peels off the rest of his dress shirt, shoves his slacks down his thighs, and smothers you in body heat until you’re starving for air between frenzied kisses. 

His hands pull upon a tender breast and opens up a thigh. You scratch his sweaty back and tug upon the slippery, swollen shaft pulsating towards your vulva. 

The shy, gentleman scientist that is Wilson, disappears with a snap of his hips. Whatever virginal bride you had been before dies around the thick, deep fulfillment stretching your small body asunder. Pain quickly melts into sunshine. 

Thunder booms.

A leak springs up in the corner of the bedroom, but the rain is merely a curtain of noise against duel grunting and moaning while Wilson pounds you into an aching mass. 

“Fill-fill me! Yesss… yes!” Each thrust opens something deep inside. Resistance turns to welcoming wetness as Wilson drives deeper… harder and faster with each command you give him - each demand for more and more and more. 

His sharp nose wrinkles up, forcing his brows to come together in a definite line of pain, but it’s not… you know it’s not painful because the same stress lines your youthful face, and there’s nothing but pure bliss. 

A warmth spreads - deep, itchy euphoria blossoms up and around your temples until it peaks in your toes and fingers and around Wilson’s fast thrusting… cock. 

“I-I need to…” he gasps, dripping sweat as he takes you with more vigor than any animal or beast you imagine, “I’m going to-“

A climax seizes your internal muscles, contracting, and swelling like the other had not. This one is dripping and tight - painful and beautiful. 

You cry out for him to stay close; arms squeezing around him with nails that draw blood. A refusal to let him go until you’re no longer shaking with this sensation that is to be worshipped like the monsters here worship whatever they do.

A haunting cackle underlays the rain, mixing with Wilson’s hissing moans as a wet heat fills your body. 

His thrusts quickly slow, but each smack of his hips rattle your senses and taps something deep within. Each drag of flesh feels more intense in its sluggishness - each motion somehow sloppier…

It dawns on you that Wilson’s filled you just like you begged him to. He’s done as you demanded without knowing precisely what you asked for. 

“My… my lady,” he pants against your temple and whimpers when you thrust down into his hips, trying to milk one more ounce of pleasure from him. Another hot spurt of semen heats your womb, warming a part of you that’s never been touched until now. 

You smile amidst the pounding of your heart and the smothering heat of his body… and the copious amounts of fluids dripping around where you’re both joined. 

Wilson sighs as he removes himself from your swollen insides, proceeding a leak of semen that makes your smile stretch higher in giddiness. 

You giggle breathlessly; lashes fluttering as the world slowly stops spinning. For a moment, you think you see Maxwell’s toothy smile in the darkness outside your vision, but Wilson leans in to kiss away the last of your energy, and thoughts grow quiet. 

“I should’ve pulled away before-“

“Shhh,” you quiet him and reach between your bodies to where his essence pools and sticks to your vulva.

Wilson’s eyes darken again as they have before. 

You’re unsure what that means or if it’s leftover from his banishment into this hungry world, but he looks down and begins to trace your sticky folds as you spread yourself open for him to see the leaking mess more clearly.

“How does it look?” It feels like summer but stuffed inside…

Wilson says nothing, just parts his lips, and lowers his mouth to your sore, dripping core.

Behind his messy hair, between the crack in the door, you think you see the dark dressed man with black eyes watching. But a snap of lightning washes the hallucination away, and the tentative touch of Wilson’s tongue leaves you utterly uncaring. 

You’re here for good… in this weird world, but Wilson is here with you, and whether or not Maxwell has plans beyond your scope of thinking or not, it doesn't matter now. Right now, your gentleman scientist is proving he’s not so much a gentleman at all, but a devilish force of nature with a skillful tongue and long… long-reaching fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> All typos and errors are my own. This is unbetaed but I tried, I promise! Bean drew me an amazing drawing that can be found on my Twitter. Please follow them for amazing smut! <3
> 
> [TUMBLR](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brimbrimbrimbrim)   
>  [DISCORD](https://discord.gg/BS4uvMK)   
>  [CURIOUS CAT](https://curiouscat.me/brimbrimbrimbrim)   
>  [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/LydiaBrim)   
>  [INSTAGRAM](https://www.instagram.com/brim_brim_brim_brim/)


End file.
